  Dusking amber dimly creeps Over the vale, Lit by the kildee's silver sweeps, Sad with his wail. Eastward swing the silent clouds Into the night. Burdens of day they seem—in crowds Hurled from earth's sight. Tilting gulls whip whitely far Over the lake, Tirelessly on o'er buoy and spar Till they o'ertake Shadow and mingled mist—and then Vanish to wing Still the bewildering night-fen, Where the waves ring. Dusking amber dimly dies Out of the vale. Dead from the dunes the winds arise— Ghosts of the gale. |
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